Days Like This

I’m cold to the bone and all of my things hurt. All of them. Today was one of those days I would gladly just throw in the rubbish bin, light a match, and let burn because sometimes, despite all of your best efforts, shit goes sideways and keeps going sideways forever and ever amen. 

I am utterly exhausted. No art exists in this statement. Whatever reserves I had amassed were totally eradicated by two weeks of sinus headaches, a week of insomnia, twelve days of no alcohol and one very frustrating series of misadventures. So this post will be short, punchy and humorless. 

This morning while I was making the bed, my phone fell out of my pocket. It turns out that I actually managed to make the bed over my phone because Benadryl hangover…yeah. Normally misplacing my phone would have been nothing more than a stupid nuisance, but tonight I was supposed to catch a ride to my friend’s wedding rehearsal. And then friend ended up running late, which I had no way of knowing. Long story short, I ended up on the bus. There are a lot of stains of unknown provenance on bus seats, y’all. I’m just saying. And I didn’t get home until after eight.

It’s done wonders for my disposition. I’m trying herbal tea and meditation, but herbal tea and gazing at my navel only goes so far. Let’s just say if my buddy’s psycho hose beast of an ex is dumb enough to crash his wedding, I’m not sure I’ll be above taking off my pretty little pumps and clocking a bitch.

I will try, though. God only knows, I will try.

You Can Call Me Taycheedah

I’ve decided to start writing at least a paragraph a day. This is not much by anybody’s stretch of the imagination, but avalanches don’t start with much either. The last year I’ve been struggling with recovering from major surgery and clinical depression, which is ever so much fun.  I like to think of it as a sort of tag team luchador fight with clinical depression wearing hot pink in the right corner. The upshot is that my productivity, she is curb kicked. Or mule kicked. Or whatever. I haven’t been writing. I haven’t been doing anything, and that needs to stop. This is therapy—one paragraph, every day, until the emotional scar tissue is worked down to tolerable levels of distress.

Apropos of nothing, at work I learned that there is a town in Wisconsin called Taycheedah. My fellow cubicle serf, Kevin, agreed that this is the perfect luchador name, and that I should hop on that project stat. And thus I became Taycheedah. Vanquisher of bullshit ad copy, destroyer of sloppy contracts. Depression trembles before me. Now all I have to do is get some colorful spandex and a sewing machine....